


Quiet Days

by audreycritter



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Musing, alfred and his loyalty, bruce is sometimes bad at staying in one piece, depictions of injuries, hurt/comfort kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: There are days full of a certain kind of quiet that Alfred Pennyworth could very well live without.But as long as Bruce chooses to fight for Gotham, Alfred will choose to bear the quiet days.





	

There were many kinds of days in Alfred Pennyworth’s life, and the ones he both loved and hated were the quiet ones. It was Charles Dickens who penned “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times” and, aside from Bruce’s own fondness for Dickens, they were words that Alfred felt rang especially true on those quiet days.

It was clear that there were different kinds of quiet. Alfred knew several of them well-- the quiet of thinking, the quiet of an empty house, the quiet of sleep. But the days he thought of as quiet days in particular were the days that followed a particular strenuous battle, or a sleepless pursuit and fight, or an offworld mission.

Those were the days that followed Bruce limping home and peeling off the cowl with a weary hand, if he was still conscious past the first few steps into the cave. And after Alfred bandaged and mended what he could came the days of such divided sentiment.

Often, they began mere hours after Bruce returned home. Usually, the setting was the Master Bedroom. Those were the hours in which he pushed the boys away, usually kept out of harm themselves by sheer willpower and threats. If they had been injured, those days took a different tone, but that was not as often as one might think. Far more frequently, it was only Bruce.

So, it was Alfred alone who loved the selfish security of knowing Bruce-- this man who was rather like a son to him-- was safe. If he was at home recovering, that meant he was not out with mere skill and luck between him and his own death. It was also Alfred who hated those quiet days of watching and knowing the physical and psychological cost of being the Batman.

Because it was Alfred, alone, who slipped into the room and did not pull back the curtains as he would on a normal morning, urging Bruce to get up for his day job. It was Alfred, alone, who instead checked temperature and wounds for signs of infection, who helped lift a battered body to sip water or vomit into a bin.

Those quiet days sometimes felt like they stretched on for years, though in reality they were often three, or five, or week long stretches at most. In the shuffling steps from bed to bathroom, when Bruce would lean heavily on him and favor his ribs or his left hip or his gouged right calf, the minutes seemed to take a lifetime.

And Bruce, after being so inquisitive and bold as a child, had grown into the sort of man that wrapped silence around himself like a cape. Alfred was not certain how much of this was his own influence. It meant that those days had more than earned the word “quiet” and most suffering was borne in it.

The times that Bruce staggered and groaned, or felt back into the bed and hissed, were times that Alfred felt his heart ripped asunder. It meant that the damaged muscles or bones or flesh had exceeded even Bruce’s tolerance.

Perhaps it was the nature of injury that, if Bruce had managed to isolate from the boys he was so reluctant to display weakness or suffering in front of, he was a remarkably docile patient. There was a point, of course, where his stubborn streak dictated that he haul himself up and go back to work and life and it was almost always before Alfred thought it wise. But before that shift, there were the hours and days when his obstinance would be focused solely on the act of not giving up.

And it was Alfred, alone, who saw how alluring that temptation could be, when Bruce was too wounded to move or retain consciousness for long or fight the side effects of the stronger painkillers that grew less and less effective over time.

With his energy channeled into merely staying alive and holding the desire to recover, he did not often argue with or resist Alfred. If Alfred said there was medicine, or liquid, or food, or that he ought to try and sit up for a bit, he wordlessly complied. And this was something Alfred resented-- having to be the one to push him when no one else was allowed near.

But it was part of the price, he supposed, for what he had agreed to support and be involved in. So, he coddled his resentment and anger and directed it toward the villain of the hour. If Bruce ever wondered why Alfred, of all people, carried less mercy and goodwill for struggling criminals, this was the root of it.

It was in the moments when infection defied antibiotics for worried hours, when Alfred sat at a bedside and held a cold cloth to a fevered brow. It was in the moments when necessity drove movement, when Bruce had to retch or turn a stiffening limb and could not hold back a half-sobbed moan. It was in the moments when Alfred changed bedding or got clean pillows or refilled a glass of water and caught sight of Bruce’s face, his eyes full of tears no one else would see.

And as perverse as it seemed, Alfred was also reassured by these displays of weakness. He was grateful for every small thing that reminded Bruce of his own limitations, and for every way those reminders might make him more cautious in the future. He was proud that countless periods of recovery had not deterred Bruce from fighting when he thought the price worth it.

Alfred was consoled by the small fact that Bruce had not yet shut him out from seeing the aftermath. That, after everything, these times without inhibition or reserve were something Alfred was permitted to see. It meant that Bruce was not alone.

So, Alfred would bear it because it was a small burden to bear, in the grand scheme of things. If his own body aged, he disregarded it in those days when Bruce needed a steady shoulder and a calm hand.

Every set of quiet days followed a predictable progression, from the trudging climb up the stairs to the predawn moment when Bruce would wake in the dark room and sleepily ask, “Al, you there?” and Alfred would rouse from light slumber in a chair to answer, “Of course, sir. What do you need?”

The answer varied but at the heart of it was the unspoken dependence, the bond they had formed that was not quite like father and son but far deeper and more complex than employee and employer. Alfred had long given up on finding a suitable name for it.

In their time, the quiet days would draw to a close and Bruce would stand and dress and eat breakfast downstairs, still moving slowly and pausing to lean on counters when he thought no one was watching. Alfred would draw back the heavy curtains and clean the room and brew stronger coffee than usual.

Life would creep back toward normal with scattered moments when a small breath sucked in between clenched teeth or a motionless moment in a hallway would remain. Eventually, those, too, would fade away until the next time.

Once, early on, Bruce had taken in Alfred’s poorly hidden exhaustion in a moment of clarity and said, “I’m sorry, Alfred, for making you deal with this. It was my decision.”

“And this is mine,” Alfred had assured him, letting a comforting hand linger on Bruce’s shoulder. The shoulder that hadn’t been covered in gauze and medical tape, anyway.

When Bruce would return, broken and bruised, their eyes would meet-- Alfred knew his own were often full of mild reproach and worry, while Bruce’s were usually clouded with exhaustion and pain. But still the question would go between them, without verbal form, and Alfred’s answer were his actions.

_Yes, I have still chosen this._


End file.
